Reunion
by gwenweybourne
Summary: A Series 3-based sequel to "Intolerable. Ludicrous. Incredible." and "Reboot" (and yes, you ought to read those first). Sherlock's back from the dead, but John has moved on with Mary and won't turn his back on her. Even if it makes him and Sherlock miserable. But Mary knows that the two former lovers need each other more than ever and they need her, too.
1. I Needed You

You came out of nowhere,

Stealing my heart and brain,

Flaming my every cell,

You make me feel myself

— M83, "Reunion"

John Watson found himself looking over his shoulders as he walked down Baker Street, approaching 221B. Twice now he had come to the flat to talk to Sherlock Holmes about something important. And twice that he'd been prevented from doing so. The first time he'd been stabbed in the neck with a syringe, abducted, and nearly burned alive in a bonfire; the second time he'd had to run off with Sherlock and they'd nearly been blown to bits, along with Parliament and a good chunk of London.

_Third time's the charm? _He thought ruefully. Not that this was a conversation he particularly wanted to have. But it needed to be done. Mary was also encouraging him to do this.

Sherlock Holmes had come back from the dead. His best friend. His former lover. The man with whom John had once thought he would spend the rest of his life. That was how it was supposed to be, wasn't it? Sherlock and John, solving crimes and having adventures until they got old and tired and then they would settle down quietly somewhere together to spend their golden years. Sherlock would take up some new hobby to pass the time — he'd spoken several times of bee-keeping. John wanted to try his hand at gardening. He'd wanted to watch Sherlock Holmes get silver hair and become soft around the middle and have to wear spectacles to read the paper. But before that, an exciting life of adventure and the simple thrill of being with Sherlock Holmes. In every sense of the word. Friend, lover, colleague, and companion.

It was no wonder it had felt like John's world had ended the day Sherlock bid him goodbye from the roof of Bart's and plunged to his death. John would never lose the image of his love's crumpled, bloody body on the pavement. His cold, limp wrist in John's hand, yielding no pulse. The funeral, John's speech at his gravesite. Seemingly endless grief. There had been days where John could barely see the point of carrying on. But carry on he did. Day after plodding day until it started to get a little easier. Where the crushing weight of grief seemed to life a little. To allow him to breathe again. To notice things like a sunny day or a pretty girl. A woman. One woman in particular. When Mary Morstan had come on board at the locum, it was like someone had opened the curtains and let in the light.

Indeed, she'd marked the beginning of a new life for him. A life completely different from the kind he had shared with Sherlock. They did ordinary things together: sharing meals, going to the cinema, picking out new linen for the bedroom, taking a mini-break abroad for a change of pace. John had seen what "excitement" brought: death, injury, and despair. He wanted none of it anymore. He'd been blessed with another chance at happiness and he was going to grab on to it and hold on for dear life.

And then the night when he'd been ready to propose to Mary … and there he was. Sherlock Holmes, larger than life itself. Now that some weeks had passed and John had more or less recovered from the sheer rage and betrayal he had felt after realizing he'd been duped for all that time, he was reminded of Sherlock's childlike side. And his often complete inability to judge appropriate behaviour for a situation. Posing as a waiter with that ridiculous little pencilled-on mustache — for God's sake! He'd been excited, like a little boy, eager to surprise his friend and resume their life together. Only it hadn't worked out that way. John had moved on. Sherlock's return changed nothing for him. Of course he was happy that Sherlock was alive. Of course he was. And … of course John would always care for him. Would love him. Always. And John missed him, of course. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about Sherlock in a romantic way since the news had broken. A sexual way. Of course. They'd had a very active and passionate sex life. Much of it revolving around John's ability to "reboot" Sherlock's hard drive with a good, solid shagging. He'd have to be made of stone not to ever think about that again.

John shook his head and gritted his teeth. Mary. He loved Mary. He loved sex with Mary. He loved his life with Mary. He wasn't going to toss that all away simply because Sherlock Holmes had decided it was finally time to return home. It simply didn't work that way.

John fumbled for his keys, found them, and stared at them for a moment. I haven't lived here in over two years and I still have a set of keys. And everyone else — Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson — seem to think it's perfectly normal. But it's not, is it?

He opened the door and climbed the stairs. Violin music sang down the hallway. John smiled a little, feeling a twinge in his chest. Sometimes it still didn't seem real that Sherlock was alive. Back at Baker Street, mixing potions, and playing his fiddle like nothing had happened. Only everything had happened. Nothing was the same for John anymore.

He knocked on the door to the flat before opening it. Sherlock acknowledged him with a nod and finished the final few bars of the movement before ending with a flourish.

"Hello, John." He gestured to John's chair, which the doctor sank into gratefully.

"Tea?"

"Yes, yes please. That would be very nice."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment.

John cocked his head. "You don't actually have any tea, do you?"

Sherlock frowned. "I … don't actually know. Lately it just seems to appear when I wake up."

John chuckled briefly. "Ah, the tea fairy, of course."

Sherlock put away his violin and bow into the case and gathered his burgundy dressing gown around him before settling into his chair opposite John. "So. To what do I owe the honour of this visit? Overwhelmed by wedding plans already?"

"Ah, no. No. It's early days yet. And you know Mary. She's got a firm handle on things so far. Actually, I'm come because I feel like we need to talk. We've need to talk since you decided to come back from the grave."

Sherlock feigned ignorance. "Talk about what?" he asked, his words clipped.

"You. Me. … us."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "It was quite clearly impressed upon me that there was no longer an 'us' as I saw you attempting to propose to Mary in the restaurant."

John threw his hands up. "You were dead, Sherlock!"

"Two years!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Is that all it took for you to mourn me and decide to marry a woman? Two years? I have bacteria cultures that have lasted longer than that!"

John pointed at Sherlock. "You will NOT rewrite history to make this _my _fault. _You _left _me_, remember? You left me! You made me watch you 'die.'" John's eyes flashed. "You made me bloody _watch_! Have you any idea what it's like to be forced to watch the person you love jump off a fucking building and bleed all over the pavement? Hmm? To bury them? To speak at their funeral … I wrote a bloody _eulogy_ for you, Sherlock! I agonized over it for days. I could barely get through it without going to bits. Stamford was on call to take over if I couldn't keep it together."

Sherlock's pressed his lips together in a hard line. He couldn't quite meet John's eye. "I had to, John. You know that."

"Yes, I know that! You've impressed _that _quite clearly upon me. But you didn't tell me what you were going to do. Not a word. Because you couldn't trust me to keep your secret? That was what you said, right? I trusted you, Sherlock." John was shaking now. "I trusted you with everything. With my life! Why couldn't you trust me with yours?" He swallowed hard. "If … if I'd known … I would have waited. I would have waited for as long as it took. I … I loved you. I love you."

Sherlock looked at John. "I thought you hated me. You know … the punching." He waved around the vicinity of his face. "The bleeding. But then in the train you said that you forgave me. And now you're angry."

John stood up and began to anxiously pace the sitting room. "I may have forgiven you for leaving, but I never stopped being angry about it, Sherlock. That will take time. But it doesn't mean that I don't love you." John swallowed around another lump in his throat and cleared it roughly. "I wish you'd loved me enough to trust me."

Sherlock's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. He stood up as well and stalked after Johen. "For god's sake, John, you know I trusted you. I've always trusted you. And I loved … love you." His pale cheeks pinked slightly. Even in the best of times, they'd never had an easy time of talking openly about such things. Their affection had been more of a physical one. And now Sherlock had been away from all of that for two years and the language felt foreign and rusty and uncomfortable in his mouth. "Can't you see?" He implored. "I couldn't take _any chances_. There had to be absolutely no way for you to be compromised. I did what I had to do to ensure that. Because I couldn't be there to watch over you. To be sure you were safe. Because I couldn't … I couldn't bear …"

"Losing me?" John finished the sentence. "Sherlock, I could write a bloody _novel _at this point about things that are unbearable. You made sure I experienced all of them."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his gaze burning into John's. "I am. That you had to experience that. It … would be logical that you would move on and meet someone else. Mary … she's … good. It's just that I … I haven't … I …" Sherlock took a step closer, his eyes pleading.

John felt himself take a step closer as well, in spite of himself. "You haven't what, Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a mind, the movement pained. "… been touched. By someone who didn't want to kill me."

John hesitated, then lifted his hands to cradle Sherlock's thin face. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and he leaned just slightly into the touch.

"You mean in two years, you haven't … within anyone?" John asked softly. "Before I wouldn't have found that surprising, but, you know, with us …"

"John Watson," Sherlock whispered. "I told you more than once that you're the only one. Will only ever be the only one."

John took a shaky breath. "And what exactly am I supposed to do with that declaration, Sherlock? You ruined me when you left. I was lonely. Lost. Grieving. I had no employment. No one would exactly want to hire John Watson to solve a crime without Sherlock Homes even before Sherlock Holmes decided to let the world shit all over his reputation before topping himself. I had to start all over again." John went to pull his hands away, but Sherlock's hands circled around his wrists and held them in place. Their gazes locked and John felt a familiar heat building between them. The kind of heat that once made him feel invincible and alive and now it just made him feel confused. And guilty. _Mary …_

"You went back to medicine. I knew you would." Sherlock turned his head ever so slightly, so that his soft lips grazed across John's palm and the other man shuddered, feeling it through every nerve ending.

"Yes. I did. If I couldn't help myself, then I could at least help other people," John said through gritted teeth. "And then I met Mary. And she saved me. I was dead inside and she brought me back to life." And with a guttural noise in the back of his throat, John wrenched free of Sherlock's grasp and lurched back a step. "And she deserves better than me letting myself be seduced by you again. I'm glad you're alive, Sherlock. And, contrary to my initial reaction, I'm glad you're back, but —"

"Seduced _again_?" Sherlock interrupted. "I beg your pardon. Now who's rewriting history?"

John exhaled through his nose and pressed his lips together. "Not to have this devolve into a petty argument, but I believe it was you who came to me and asked if we could, um … experiment together. The thought hadn't crossed my mind before."

Sherlock snorted derisively.

"All right, all right, perhaps I'd thought about it, but I never would have acted on it. It would have remained platonic between us because when we first met you'd made it quite clear that was how you wanted it."

"And the fact that I changed my mind … you call that a seduction?" Sherlock scoffed. "I had no practical experience, John. I didn't even know if it would … work."

"Well, it did!" John sputtered, sinking down into his chair. "Like bloody gangbusters. I don't think either of us expected that to happen."

"Sometimes I wish I'd never learned about it," Sherlock muttered, lacing his fingers behind his back and pacing around the sitting room. "You can't miss what you haven't experienced. It was never a bother. I never wanted it until I had it and …"

"Lost it," John finished sadly. "Tell me about it." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bloody hell, it's just like Mycroft said it would be."

Sherlock looked over sharply at John. "What? What did he say to you? When was this?"

"Years ago," John continued tiredly. "You remember that day when he tried to bribe me to leave you?"

Sherlock strode back to his chair and sat, staring down John with rapt attention. "Of course. Go on. What did my brother say about how 'it would be.'"

"That … you'd chosen me. And you would have only me. And that made you my responsibility. One I couldn't take lightly. He made me choose between you and a future where …"

"… where you get married and have a family. Like what you want to do with Mary," Sherlock finished.

John pursed his lips and exhaled noisily through his nose, staring down at his hands. "I chose you," he said, his voice roughened.

"I know you did," Sherlock replied softly. "And do you regret your choice?"

"No," John said swiftly and firmly, shaking his head. "No, never. In spite of it all … how could I …" he looked up helplessly at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. "There you go. Not as if you considered this to be 'do-over' for a regrettable choice. Though I'm sure many would agree that it was precisely that. As for Mycroft, you know my brother still likes to treat me as if I were still a child. I assure you, John, I am no one's responsibility. I am my own keeper, contrary to what he may believe."

"You certainly proved that the day you took a swan dive off the roof and disappeared," John murmured. "You say you did it all to protect us, yet we were completely cut out of the conversation. It didn't occur to you that we could help."

"Because you couldn't. I'd already considered and discarded that option," Sherlock said evenly. "Oh, John, still operating from a place of sentiment and misguided camaraderie when logic clearly indicates another course."

John shrugged and slapped his palms on the arms of the chair. "So what now, huh? Where do we go from here?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "There's something else from that day. The day Mycroft tried to buy you off," he said quietly.

John made a small sound in the back of his throat. "No, Sherlock," he whispered. "Don't …"

"You told me you were in love with me. And I had to ask you to explain what that meant."

John took a shaky breath. "I remember, Sherlock. I was there."

Sherlock pursed his lips slightly. "You were the only person who was able to explain love in a way that made sense to me. Maybe because you were the first person I'd met for whom I was able to experience those defining factors. You said earlier you still love me. But I assume not the same way as before."

John sighed, staring down at his hands helplessly for a moment before meeting Sherlock's gaze. "It can't be the same as it was before. You have to understand that."

"I understand that."

"No, Sherlock," John insisted. "I really don't think you do. I think you expected me to just go into some kind of … stasis … until you could come back. It doesn't work that way. My life didn't stop because you went away. I didn't go looking for Mary, but she found me. She filled in the holes that were left behind when you left. She gives me what I need. And that's what makes the difference. I can't … I won't leave her. I love her. I am _in_ love with her. But yes, I love you, too. But it's different. I still think you're brilliant and extraordinary and I'm so incredibly glad that you didn't die that day. Also that I don't have to carry that memory around with me anymore. Not in the same way."

"Then tell me," Sherlock said suddenly and sharply. "Tell me — to my face — that all you feel for me now is friendship. Come here and tell me that. Like you did the day when you said you couldn't be without me." He swallowed. "… please."

John exhaled shakily. "Sherlock … don't."

"You can't, can you?" Sherlock, seeing that John wasn't going to move, rose from his chair and sank to his knees in front of John, mirroring that night so many years ago when John had assumed the same position to declare his love.

"Sherlock …" John muttered helplessly, his hands twitching, eyes darting about, wanting to look anywhere but into Sherlock's fervent gaze.

This time it was Sherlock who gently held John's face between his hands, forcing the other man to look at him. "Don't you understand? I'm not asking you to be rid of Mary. I see what she … she … you need her."

"I do," John whispered roughly.

"But you need me, too. And I need you." Sherlock moved in closer, his eyes burning. "I _need_ you, John. I've always needed you. Even before I knew it to be true. Even before we met. I'm not suggesting you give up anything you've gained in the past two years. Only that you take back what is rightfully yours. So you can have everything. Everything you need. You've gone without for so long …"

John made a broken sound and when Sherlock leaned in to kiss him, John kissed him back.

_John kissed him back._

Sherlock's senses exploded and his mind flooded with familiar data. The taste, the smell, the feel. The sound — oh, but that soft, low, helpless moan belonged to him. There had been so many times where he had craved this simple connection. So many nights on the run. Hiding from Moriarty's operatives in dark, cold places. Wondering if this might be the night that he died for real. Running, always running. Often running for his life. Chained and whipped in that Serbian dungeon. Two years of seeking out people, but always being alone. Two years without John. Sherlock's hands moved from John's face and wrapped around his shoulders and John held him back. They grabbed at each other, the kiss becoming hungrier, more desperate.

_Sherlock_. Their mouths met and John was transported back to that first time. In his room. Sherlock lying on John's bed and simply offering himself up. Letting John touch and kiss him and peel back layers until Sherlock was naked, in all senses of the word, trembling and moaning under John's touch. Fearful of letting go, but trusting.

And he gave himself to John again and again. John buried his hands in Sherlock's thick curls and feasted on his mouth, tasting him and feeling the vibration of Sherlock's sighing moans of satisfaction and pleasure. _Where have you been for two years? What's happened to you? Do I even want to know?_

And with that, the expected backlash began in his mind. John remembered what it was like when all this was taken away. A cold bed and a silent flat. One lonely, heartsick day fading into the next. Everything gray. Everything hopeless. Until Mary. Mary, who had brought the light back. Mary, who wore John's ring on her finger. Mary … waiting at home for him right now, thinking how wonderful it was that John was reconnecting with his old friend. Trusting that the history was ancient.

John made a snarling sound. "… NO!" He pushed Sherlock back, knocking him onto his rear end.

Sherlock stared up at John, dazed, his hair mused, lips swollen and wet. "… John?"

John stood up and moved away from the chair. Away from Sherlock and his magnetic force. "Sherlock … it can't … it doesn't work like that! It can't be like this! Our time …" he paused, rubbing his forehead and clearing his throat. "That time has passed. I have to think of Mary. I won't betray her."

Sherlock stared up at John and said nothing. There had been so many times where John had wanted him to just shut up, but now that he had, John wished it weren't so. But what else was there to say? This wasn't going to work. He'd been mad to come over here. To think he could find a way to reconcile his old life with his new one.

And then Sherlock spoke. Quietly. Brokenly. "You said you would do anything for me. Anything that I needed. I need you."

John's eyes teared up. "Yeah, well, I need_ed_ you, Sherlock. I bloody well needed you. At least needed to know you weren't dead. And guess what — even marriage vows are nullified by death. I'm sorry, I really am. But I can't do this. I just can't." John threw his keys down on the table, grabbed his coat and left 221B. Possibly for the last time. Wondering how long it would take to forget the image of Sherlock sprawled out on the floor, mute and dishevelled, the knees of his trousers marred with dust, with heartbreak clearly etched onto his features. It rivalled the mental image he carried of his former lover bleeding and broken on the sidewalk in front of Bart's.


	2. Q&A

Mary Morstan hovered in the doorway to the sitting room, eyeing the back of John's head. He sat silently, grimly, his hand clutching a tumbler of Scotch. That he'd refilled twice in the past half hour.

When he'd first stormed in the door after his visit with Sherlock, she'd immediately asked what had happened. What was wrong? But her queries went unanswered save for a gruff, "Nothing. I don't want to talk about it."

All right then. She'd retreated and given him some time alone to sit and stew over whatever had happened at Baker Street. She'd encouraged this visit, as she had all contact with Sherlock ever since he'd ambushed them in the middle of John's proposal at the restaurant. Mary had never met anyone quite like Sherlock before, but she knew his sort. Had encountered those like him during her travels. In her life before John. She knew she needed to stand her ground. To be unafraid and confident. But not arrogant. Unflappable.

Mary was good at unflappable. Been a long time since she'd been flapped by anyone and Sherlock Holmes certainly wasn't going to get under her skin. Not like he had with John. In fact, with those two, it was already apparent that it was difficult to know where one skin ended and the other began. She'd learned enough since meeting and falling in love with John that what he'd had, experienced, and lost with Sherlock was extraordinary. Getting John to really open up about what had happened had taken a long time, but when she'd finally gotten it out of him, John had begged her not to compare herself to Sherlock. He didn't want her to think she had to compete with his memory.

Certainly not. She didn't need John to tell her that. Sherlock had occupied such a peculiar place in John's life that it hadn't been hard to carve out her own roads. To make her own home in John's heart. It was an awfully big heart, after all. She just needed her own piece of it and was satisfied with that. She knew where she stood. And she knew that the fact that her man had come home to her meant that her standing was as firm as she'd thought.

But now things were on the verge of going askew. She couldn't let that happen. Balance needed to be restored. She took a breath and entered the sitting room, moving quietly, but making enough sound so John knew she was approaching. She sat down, carefully, in the chair opposite him, arranged her hands primly on her knees and looked at her fiancé until he was forced to meet her gaze.

"What. Happened?" she asked kindly, but firmly.

John squirmed slightly.

"John." The syllable held weight. Expectation.

John exhaled through his nose. "It's not going to work, Mary. Sherlock and I. Working together again. It can't. I thought it was ancient history, but it's not. Not for him."

"What, did he try it on with you?" Mary said with a chuckle.

John tilted his head ever so slightly and widened his eyes.

"Oh. I see." Mary pursed her lips. "Well, then."

"Well, then?" John looked at her, astonished. "That's all you have to say?"

Mary shrugged. "Did you shag him?"

"No!" John exclaimed, the force of his reply causing the amber liquid to slosh dangerously near the rim of his glass. "Of course not! How could you say such a thing?"

"Because I know you wouldn't do that behind my back," Mary replied softly.

"Damn right I wouldn't," John muttered, casting his eyes down.

"So what happened? Is he going to get Mycroft to put out a hit on me? Should I be looking over my shoulder?" Her mouth quirked in amusement.___Bring it on, big boy._

"No, no," John said quietly. Then he looked up at Mary again. "He seems quite fond of you, actually. We talked … argued … about why he left. Why he didn't tell me. He made it clear that he still has … feelings for me."

"And what about you?" Mary murmured. "Do you have feelings for him?"

"I'm with you now, Mary. We're getting married, remember?"

"That's not an answer, John."

"I choose you."

Mary leaned back slightly. "… did he make you choose? Give an ultimatum? 'This Watson ain't big enough for the two of us?' sort of thing?" She gave a loopy grin.

"I can't believe you're joking at a time like this. No, he didn't. But he forced my hand. He made me push him away." John took another sip of his drink and grimaced. "Can't ever leave well enough alone, that one."

"What did he do?"

"It doesn't matter. He crossed a line. Let's leave it at that."

"John."

John met her eyes and rolled his slightly. "Speaking of not leaving well enough alone … he kissed me, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Mary paused for a beat. "Did you kiss him back?"

John stared at her. Then down at his lap. "Yes. At first. It was like … muscle memory. And sometimes I can't believe he's alive again. Right there in front of me. I'd …"

"… missed him," Mary finished. "Of course you did. He was your world, John. He was everything to you. And then it was taken away. Of course you missed him. I'm not surprised you kissed him back."

John was quiet for a few moments. "You're not angry?" he asked softly. "I am sorry, Mary. It was just for a few moments and then I got my sanity back and realized what I was doing was ridiculous. And wrong. And I stopped it. And I left. And I don't reckon I'll be going back."

"Are you sure?" Mary asked. "It's still early days yet. Things could settle."

"No," John replied firmly, draining the rest of his drink. "I think a clean break is what's needed. He needs to learn to live without me … again. He certainly seemed to do a good enough job of it for the past two years. But he doesn't understand that things can't be the same now that he's back. I suppose Mycroft was right — all that stuff he said about Sherlock not being able to let me go once he had his sights on me."

"But I thought you said he didn't want you to be rid of me," Mary said, tilting her head.

"Well, no. He never said that. He was saying some very odd things." John frowned. "Something along the lines of how he wasn't suggesting that I give up what I had, but that I take back what I'd lost. What was rightfully mine." He looked at Mary questioningly. "What kind of rubbish was that? What … I should be with both of you? That's crazy. I told him things don't work that way. Our time is finished. I was moving on before he came back and now that all that madness with the bomb and bloody bonfire is behind us, I can continue on with that. He'll have to find a new playmate, that's all." John stared pensively into his empty glass.

___If I didn't know you as well as I did, Johnny, I'd almost believe you_, Mary thought.

Interrogation over. She had what she needed. She stroked her hand over John's knee until he looked up at her and smiled. That dear, sweet smile. She loved him so. She leaned in and pecked him gently on the lips. "Sounds like a rough day, darling. I'll start tea, yes?"

"Yeah, that sounds good," John replied.

"Go easy on that Scotch. I don't want you passing out in your plate."

"Yes, dear."


	3. The Chosen Ones

Sherlock's phone beeped with a text. Sherlock, engrossed in the slide on his microscope, ignored it. For the first five beeps. In the days since John had stormed out of the flat and left his keys behind, Sherlock hadn't wanted to speak to anyone. Do anything. Except study the mould culture he had found behind the bathroom sink. He really did need, however, need to remember to disable the "reminder" function for texts. Finally, he straightened up, snatched the phone up to check the message.

In your neighbourhood and thought I'd stop in to say hello. Maybe have a cuppa? xo Mary

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He had been expecting this visit since his confrontation with John. He'd been hoping for it, at least. It meant that there was still a chance. If his estimation of Mary's character was correct. He quickly tapped out a reply:

Hello. If you have more say beyond that, then please come. I am at Baker Street. SH

He put down the phone and yelled for Mrs. Hudson to bring some tea.

[break]

Mary stepped into the sitting room, unwinding the long, pink scarf from her neck. Sherlock remembered ordering her to wrap it around a couple more times before getting on the motorbike and to hold tightly to him. Bad enough that John was in mortal danger, he didn't need Mary going the way of Isadora Duncan and having her neck snapped due to a scarf getting caught in a spinning wheel. He was in enough trouble with John already.

She hung up her coat and Sherlock gestured to the chair opposite him. John's chair. Mary sat down, smiling, her cheeks slightly flushed from the cool air outdoors. She wrapped her hands around the mug of tea that was waiting for her. "Thanks for this, Sherlock. Very kind of you to see me. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important."

"If it had been important, you wouldn't be here right now," Sherlock murmured, steepling his fingers. "Is there something in particular you wanted to discuss? I'm not really in the mood for small talk today … or ever."

Mary sipped her tea, then met his gaze, equally cool and steady. "I think you know why I'm here. But it would give me a little thrill if you would deduce it."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes a little. "It takes no great deduction to know that you're here because of John. Though I don't know why. He made his position very clear and you must be pleased. You've won."

Mary smirked. "Bollocks."

Sherlock blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"That's total bollocks and you know it. I may not know you well yet, Sherlock Holmes, but you can't put one over me that easily."

Sherlock frowned, but nodded slightly. "Is that so? Explain."

"Clever boy," Mary murmured, sipping her tea again. "Turning it around on me. But very well. Yes, I am here because of John, but you know precisely why. And I have not 'won.' I have a miserable fiancé moping about the house, getting more distracted and miserable by the day. He can barely feign interest in his work, let alone me. Or the wedding. I hardly call that winning. He's a wreck without you. It's actually worse than when you were 'dead.' At least then he'd had no choice but to give you up." She looked at him keenly. "And you're miserable without him, as well."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said evenly.

"Again, bollocks," Mary scoffed. "Look at this flat. Look at you."

"What's wrong with the flat?"

"It's clean! If it's clean, then you're not working." Mary gestured to the kitchen. "You can fool yourself all you like at playing with your laboratory toys over there, but you're not really working. And not sleeping. The bags under your eyes. You never look this tired when you're sleepless from working."

Sherlock shrugged and stared out the window. "I didn't want him to 'give me up.' I specifically asked him not to." And then he glared over at Mary. _Don't you dare say aloud that I begged._

Mary returned his gaze silently. _Of course not. That would be rude._ _Even thought it's true. _She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair, sipping her tea again and setting the mug on the table. "It's the last thing I want, too."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, intrigued. "Why?"

"You know why. Do you always do this?"

"Yes. I want to hear you explain it."

"To be sure we're on the same page. Is that it?"

"Something like that."

"All right." Mary sat up a little straighter. "Yes, in an ideal world I would be destined for a regular sort of life with the regular sort of bloke I met at work. They're rather hard to find at my age. Nice, sane, sensible blokes with good jobs and beautiful hearts. Like John. My dear, lovely John. Who was grieving the death of the love of his life. You."

Sherlock's lips trembled almost imperceptibly.

"He was so lost. So lonely. And so brave. However, he'd had well over a year to grieve you and so when he finally asked me out on a date, I thought, 'Okay, I think he might be ready to move on. I can help him through this.' And I did. And we were very happy."

"Until … me," Sherlock said bitterly.

"Well, you have to admit, you kind of fucked everything up," Mary said plainly, the cuss-word sounding strange contrasting with her cheerful countenance. "For me. For John. Threw the whole balance off. If I were a different sort of woman, I'd want your head right now."

"Don't you?" Sherlock asked.

"No. And I think you know that," Mary said softly. Kindly. "You read me that very first night."

Sherlock paused for a moment, then nodded. _Over-confident. Over-compensating. And she is a liar. But not about this. Not about anything that matters. Yet. This is truth._ "And then you offered to 'talk John around' for me." He looked directly into her eyes. "You surprised me. It's not easy for people to do that."

Mary smiled. "I know."

"Is that why you're here? Because you plan to talk him around again?"

"Something like that. Based on something John mentioned to me. Something you said to him. About him not having to give me up. Which is good, because I have no intention of giving him up. Ever. But I don't see why any of us has to give anything up."

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, chin on his folded hands. "Are you suggesting …"

"Didn't you suggest it first?" Mary raised an eyebrow.

"Because I know that asking him to give you up would be cruel, unreasonable, and impossible. I am occasionally and selectively aware of what these things are in regards to my behaviour. I thought I could try to …"

"… share?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered down to his lap. "Yes. Traditionally … not my area. But this is different. This is …"

"… John."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"That's a bold thing to put forward. Brazen. But you had nothing to lose."

"Because I'd already lost it," Sherlock said quietly.

"We both love John," Mary said softly. "We both need him. And he needs us. He _chose_ both of us, Sherlock. The only two people in the world whom John Watson has specifically chosen for himself."

Sherlock looked up at Mary again, lips slightly parted in astonishment.

"As I see it right now, John will never be 'okay' without you," Mary continued. "He wasn't 'okay' when you were dead, but he soldiered on because that is literally what he is. But now he doesn't have to." She leaned in closer. "On that very first night I told John that I liked you."

Sherlock blinked.

"I like you very much. I like the way John is around you. And I like the way I am around you. The way we all are around each other." She paused, then smiled. "The way I see it: if John belongs to me, and you belong to John … it's simple mathematics: you belong to me, too."

Sherlock's jaw dropped.

"You still want him, don't you?" Mary asked softly. Her wide, knowing eyes pinned Sherlock to the spot.

He swallowed and nodded, mute for a moment. "I … I will always want him. There is nothing that will stop me from wanting him." _And believe me, I tried._

"Loving him," Mary continued.

Sherlock nodded.

The next two words they spoke were nearly simultaneous: "Protecting him."

Sherlock blinked.

Mary smiled. Then pulled up her chair closer, so their knees were almost touching. She leaned forward and Sherlock unconsciously leaned back a little, his heart rate increasing slightly much to his surprise. "We want the same thing, you and I. We want John. And he wants both of us and is miserable because he doesn't think he can have what he wants. But he can. We both know that. You told him so yourself."

"But he's chosen _you_," Sherlock replied. "I couldn't possibly convince him to —"

"No." Mary finished Sherlock's thought. "But I can. With your help. I'll talk to him. And then I'll bring him here. I would prefer to give you two a night on your own to … reconnect. But I have a feeling that the only way this will work — at least in the beginning — if I am there."

Sherlock stared at John Watson's intended, gobsmacked.

"You know what this means, don't you? What we need to establish." Mary leaned in even closer. She picked up Sherlock's hands in her own small, delicate ones, and held them on his lap.

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"I'd like to think that I'm coming to know you, Sherlock," Mary said softly. "As far as you can be known. Maybe someday I'll even know you as well as John does. But at this point I know enough that your attractions to people aren't of the typical variety. And rare at best."

Sherlock snorted softly, but he was also distracted by the sensation of Mary's thumbs gently stroking the backs of his hands.

"It's not superficial appearances," Mary murmured. "It's the mind." She looked at Sherlock; forced him to meet her gaze. "You like my mind, don't you? You know there is more to me than meets the eye."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. It's quite … intriguing."

"But you haven't figured me out yet, have you? Have you even tried?"

Sherlock shrugged, dropping his gaze.

"Maybe you don't want to know, for John's sake. Maybe this is one mystery you prefer to keep mysterious. You want to stay interested. And you know I have only the best intentions where John Watson is concerned." Mary shifted, and before Sherlock knew it, she was settling sideways across his lap, an arm slipping around his shoulders.

He swallowed. "Mary, I …"

"Sherlock, you can have John." Her fingers gently hooked under his chin, forcing him to look right at her. Her breath was milky sweet. "But you have to take me with the deal. John won't have it any other way. I won't lie — I think you are an incredibly attractive, interesting, and infuriating man. And I am well sure that I am not the first woman to think so and try it on with you. But I'd like to be the first woman to make you come apart. The way I make John come apart."

Sherlock exhaled a shaky breath.

"Don't forget that," Mary whispered. "John is all over me. He's touched me and kissed me and I've touched him and kissed him and if you kissed me right now you might be able to taste him. I know you kissed him the other day, Sherlock. And he kissed you back. He wants you so much. And I think I'd like to see you together."

"Mary …" Sherlock pleaded, but he didn't know what he was pleading for. He had no words to describe what he was feeling at that very moment.

Her lips grazed his ear and Sherlock was suddenly and confusingly aroused. She shifted purposefully on his lap and he gasped softly in spite of himself. "He's told me a bit about you two … what it was like. Only sometimes. When he was inside me and very … suggestible … only then could I get him to talk about it. Told me about your hot mouth and your tight arse. How he had all over this flat and elsewhere. He probably shagged you senseless in this very chair."

"He did," Sherlock whispered. "He took off my trousers and had me sit astride him … oh god …"

Mary's hand was on his cock, pressing on its hardness through the fabric of his trousers. And then her mouth was on his and they moaned quietly, lips parting and tongues tangling. She tasted warm and sweet and Sherlock almost imagined he could taste John there, too, but it was probably just a fantasy. He'd never imagined he could react this way to someone who wasn't John, but she had seduced him with her words and her logic and her promise of delivering John Watson back into his bed. And her. Sherlock clutched at Mary as they kissed passionately. She took one of his hands and guided it up under her blouse and then he was touching the softest skin he'd ever felt. A hardening nipple grazed his palm and he stroked it, flicked his finger over it and felt her tremble. Heard her moan. He wanted …

But no. Not yet. In fact, if John Watson were to walk into the room right now, Sherlock could easily predict a bullet in his brain.

Mary sensed his wandering attention and she eased off, as well. Easing Sherlock's hand back out of her blouse. "Er, sorry about that," she murmured. "Got a bit carried away."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured back. "It's not …"

"Not right without him. Not until I've spoken to him. Convinced him. It won't be easy. I can't do it alone. I can get him here, but then you need to help me. And we need to show him that there can be something with you and I as well. With all three of us. I won't lose John. And you two are useless apart. And, from what I've heard, you had a reputation for coming between John and the women he was trying to court."

"They weren't worthy of him," Sherlock muttered. "And besides …"

"You wanted him for yourself."

"Clearly evidenced."

"Yet you've never tried to come between me and John. Not even at the very start." She touched his face lightly, grazing his cheekbone with her fingertips.

"Even I'm not that much of a complete arsehole. Come back from the dead and sabotage the one relationship that kept him sane? You think I'd do that?"

"Absolutely," Mary murmured, her lips brushing against Sherlock's. "You would have snatched him back in a mo'. But you didn't."

"No, I didn't," Sherlock murmured, his voice a low rumble.

"You like me," Mary sing-songed playfully, squeezing Sherlock's erection.

"You fascinate me," he growled and claimed her mouth again and they groped and rocked against one another for several more heated minutes before they finally broke apart again, gasping.

"The chemistry …" Mary gasped.

"… is sound." Sherlock panted.

"We can build on that." She threw him a innuendo-laden look. "We can definitely build on that."

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. "You," he started, then cleared his throat and started again, "you, Mary Morstan … are an extraordinary woman."

She grinned impishly at him, finally remembering to take her hand off his crotch. "I know."


	4. Breaking Point

John Watson gripped the his bicycle handlebars more tightly and pedalled harder. He wanted to go faster. So fast that everything turned into a blur around him. So fast that he could outrun it. This … whatever this was. Heartbreak? Grief for the living? Grief for the death of a relationship that had already been killed two years ago.

He had chosen this cycling path because it was separate from vehicular traffic and relatively empty at this time of day. Dusk, but not dark yet. Most everyone had already commuted home and were embarking on their Friday evening plans. John was avoiding home. Not because he wanted to avoid Mary, but because he wanted to avoid _hurting _Mary. With this. Whatever this was.

_Faster. Faster. … too fast!_ He was going down a small slope and he felt the handlebars wobble and the bicycle going out of control. He squeezed the brakes and managed to get around the corner before rolling up on the grass and falling over, feeling a sharp pain near his temple as he did so. He lay on his back, next to the collapsed bicycle and heard only the sound of his panting. No one appeared to have witnessed his blunder. He touched his face and felt the abrasion and beginnings of bleeding. _Wonderful_.

"You need to get it together, Doctor," he said quietly to himself through gritted teeth, fumbling in his jacket pocket for a handkerchief to press to the wound. This was ridiculous. He'd been a mess ever since the day he'd left Baker Street in a confused rage, still tasting Sherlock on his lips. Somehow this was even harder than when Sherlock had "died."

_I had no choice then. But this time I walked away. I thought that would be easier. Better._

He still held out hope that time would heal all. But so far he was getting worse. It was beyond difficult to know that Sherlock was at home — the home they used to share — in the same city and yet he was completely out of reach.

* * *

When he finally arrived home, Mary stormed in from the kitchen, her eyes flashing angrily. "An hour, John. You said you'd be gone for an hour and I should hold supper and why didn't you ring or text me at least, I've been going out of my — oh my god, what happened to you!" She'd caught sight of John's injury and his dirty cycling jacket.

"Going too fast, had a bit of a tumble," John said quietly, sheepishly. "I'm all right apart from this." He pointed to the abrasion just above his right eyebrow.

Mary sighed. "Well, come on, I can keep reading you the riot act while we get you cleaned up." She firmly took John's hand and lead him upstairs to the washroom.

"I can take care of it, Mary," John protested. "See if you can salvage dinner and I'll be right —"

"Dinner is already ruined," Mary said, sitting John down on the closed lid of the toilet. She busily gathered up some peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and a plaster. "Which is just as well because I've been wanting to go out somewhere." She swabbed the wound with the peroxide and John hissed softly. "Don't be a baby, Doctor," she teased.

"Go out? I'm shattered, Mary. Couldn't we just order in if dinner really isn't edible?"

Mary finished applying the ointment and carefully pressed the plaster over top. "Nope. And you quickly seem to have forgotten that I am still quite cross with you and you're meant to be sucking up to me and giving me exactly what I want."

John sighed.

Mary washed her hands in the sink. "Get changed and cleaned up and meeting me downstairs. I'll call for a cab." _And send a very important text._

* * *

"What's with all the secrecy, love?" John was half-amused, half-perturbed. Mary had slipped into the cab ahead of him and quietly informed the driver of their destination before he was able to overhear.

Mary smiled back enigmatically. "It's something good, John. Something that I think will help."

John's brow furrowed. "Help what, exactly?"

"This mood you've been in. This … everything since you and Sherlock fell out."

John flinched at the mention of the name. "Now, Mary, I don't know what you're talking about, I just need time to —"

"You know precisely what I'm talking about and avoiding the subject is just making things worse. I … ah, here we are." The cab pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street.

"What … what are we doing here?" John was rooted to his seat, glaring at Mary, who was already out of the car and standing on the curb.

"Paying a visit to an old friend," Mary replied.

"No … what? Why are we here? I have nothing left to say to Sherlock!" John protested, unconsciously pressing back more firmly into his seat. "I'm not going in there."

Mary shrugged nonchalantly. "I have something to say to him. And _we_ — Sherlock and I — have something to say to you. It would be lovely if you'd come upstairs to hear it."

John's brow furrowed. "Mary, what on _earth_ are you talking about? I don't like this!"

"Poor lamb," Mary said with gently mocking sarcasm, then her gaze softened and she reached for his hand. "Please, love. You trust me, don't you?"

John nodded slowly.

"Oh, that was a ringing endorsement! Let's try that again: Do. You. Trust. Me?"

John swallowed. "You know I do."

"Oi, the meter's still running," interrupted the driver crossly.

"_Oi!"_ Mary retorted. "That means you're still getting bloody paid, so give us a moment, yeah?" She turned back to John. "Then please come upstairs. Just for a few minutes. We all need to talk. _Please_, John." She implored him with her eyes.

John gritted his teeth. "You're lucky you're so bloody adorable." He pulled out his wallet to pay the driver.

"I know," Mary said softly, smiling. She stepped back and took John's hand as they stepped up to the door of 221B. She looked at him expectantly.

John looked at her oddly, then pressed the buzzer.

"Forgot your keys?" Mary asked, confused.

"I left them behind last time I was here."

"On purpose?" She was aghast.

John's brow furrowed. "Of course. It was ridiculous that I still had a set. I haven't lived here in years."

"Oh, John," Mary said softly, pushing the door open as the lock was released. "On top of everything … no wonder."

"What does _that_ mean?" John asked, following his fiancée up the stairs.

* * *

Sherlock had been pacing anxiously since he had received Mary's text that they were coming over. But as they entered the room he froze and stared at the couple.

John nodded at Sherlock and looked at Mary. "So … now will you tell me what this is all about?"

Mary ignored the question and pointed at Sherlock. "Look at him, John."

John made a _what are you on about?_ face, sighed, and turned to look at his former friend and partner. "Yes, it's Sherlock. Hello."

Mary made a frustrated sound.

Sherlock sighed quietly. "John, I believe your intended is reiterating the long-standing fact that you see, but you do not observe. If you wish to please her, I suggest you look at me a little more. Or perhaps consider the reason why she wants you to observe me."

"Thank you, Sherlock," said Mary. "Helpful as always."

Sherlock nodded solicitously at her.

John looked at both of them. "Jesus … oh Jesus Christ, you two are in cahoots, aren't you? What could you possibly …" he trailed off as Sherlock shifted and the light caught his face at a different angle. "My god, Sherlock. You look like …"

"… shit?" Sherlock supplied.

"Well … yes."

"And you hit your face on a rock. Cycling too fast again. And I thought outrunning your slow thoughts would be easy." Sherlock _tsked_ softly in disapproval.

"You both look like shit," Mary declared, shrugging out of her coat, implying to John that this wasn't meant to be a short visit. "And John, you've been acting like a shit."

John flinched and looked away. "I … I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I've … tried to …"

"Hide it from me," Mary said softly. "Hide how miserable you are from severing ties with that lummox over there."

"Hey!" Sherlock protested.

Mary turned her gaze to the detective. "Well, it's true! You're holed up in here, looking at bathroom mould and not doing anything productive or interesting. You're both moping and useless and no one is having any fun — myself included — and this has to stop."

"And how exactly do you propose to solve this?" John asked tiredly. "I can't be with both of you."

Sherlock gave John _the look_.

John's breath caught in his throat. "… no."

Mary shrugged and stepped to Sherlock's side, taking one of his hands in her own, twining her small fingers with his long, elegant ones. John watched, flabbergasted, as Sherlock tenderly squeezed her hand. Mary slipped her other arm around Sherlock's arm and rested her head against his shoulder.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

John's jaw dropped.

"We both love you, John," Mary whispered, her huge eyes shiny with unshed tears. "We love you so much. And you love us, right?"

"Yes, of course," John said impatiently, "but this is ludicrous, I —"

"— answer the question properly, John," Sherlock interrupted sharply. "Consider what this woman is asking you. Answer thoughtfully. Everything depends on it. Do you love us, too? Both of us?"

John opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, exhaling noisily through his nose and pressing a finger to his lips as he attempted to process what was happening. He hummed in the back of his throat before clearing it and looking up at Mary and Sherlock. "Yes," he rasped, his voice rough with emotion. "I do. I love you both. More than anything. And it's been tearing me apart inside. Sherlock — to walk away from you was the second hardest —"

"The first being …" Sherlock asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.

John furrowed his brow. "Now who's being thick? How about when you were ripped away from me because you bloody died!"

"Oh yes, of course," Sherlock murmured. "Sorry again about that. Please continue."

His interjection had allowed John to collect himself slightly and he raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, realizing the detective had done it on purpose.

Sherlock pursed his lips and shrugged minutely and John felt a swell of love for the ridiculous man who knew him so well that he anticipated John's reactions before they even happened. And for the woman who saw how much John needed Sherlock and … what, exactly?

"Mary," he said softly. "Are you actually suggesting that …"

Mary held out her free hand. "Come here, love," she whispered.

John stepped closer and took her hand. Mary squeezed it and a tear slid down her cheek. "I love you, John Watson. And I know you love me. I am confident in that."

"Because I do," John murmured. "I love you so much, darling. I can't imagine going on without you …"

"And you certainly will not," Mary said firmly, managing a shaky smile. "I love you and —" she looked to Sherlock and squeezed his hand affectionately "— I am dreadfully fond of this one and I think you two are beautiful together. So very special. And I think I can find my place in it."

"You will," said Sherlock. "You already have. I … we … are lucky to have you. A voice of reason."

Mary kissed John and he made a soft, helpless sound, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her back. He still didn't know what was happening and how this was all going to work but he felt a sudden weight coming off his shoulders and a vice being released from his heart.

The kiss broke and Mary nudged Sherlock. John looked up, dazed and then Sherlock's mouth was on his. Not the wild, frenzied, desperate kiss from their last meeting, but a gentle, tender, loving kiss. John held fast to Mary's hand, but let himself draw closer to Sherlock. He felt Mary's soft lips on his neck and he moaned softly, slipping an arm around Sherlock's waist.

"This is ludicrous," he gasped when the kiss broke. "What are we doing? And you two …?"

"John," Sherlock said quietly. "You've seen the way I am around Mary. Compared to how I am around most other females."

"You're … nice to her. Kind," John concurred. "I thought it was because of me …"

Sherlock's lips quirked in a smile. "Now, John, you know me better than that. Besides, Mary came to see me."

John turned his gaze on his fiancee. "Oh? Is that so?"

Mary shrugged. "I had to get him on board before working on you, dear."

"She climb into my lap and … convinced me," Sherlock said, throwing a flirtatious look at Mary.

John did a double take. "You … and him?" The thought was confusing to him. He was torn between the traditional response of jealousy and betrayal and sheer curiosity.

"Just a kiss, my love," said Mary, squeezing John's hand. "Remember how understanding I was about your stolen kiss?"

"It was more than one kiss," Sherlock interjected.

"Well, okay, more of a snog, really," Mary admitted.

"And …" Sherlock hinted.

Mary rolled her eyes. "All right, and I may have let him have a quick second-base grope."

John was shocked silent for a few more moments. Finally, he managed, "I can't decide if I want to punch Sherlock in the face, or request a re-enactment. I quite honestly don't know what to think right now."

Sherlock looked at Mary and she smiled at him. And then Sherlock leaned down and she lifted her face up and they kissed. John watched, agape, as their lips parted and Mary's tongue slid into Sherlock's mouth and they both groaned very softly.

John felt himself almost immediately getting hard. He was shocked by this, but at the same time he was becoming overwhelmed by a possessive urge. For both of them. _They look so beautiful together. And they're both mine._

Breathing shakily, he slid in behind Mary and slipped his arms around her waist. He pressed his groin up against her bum and let her feel his growing hardness. She gasped and moaned happily. Sherlock broke the kiss and looked questioningly at John. John responded by tracing the shape of Sherlock's full lower lip with the pad of his thumb and then sliding his thumb into that hot, wet mouth. Sherlock sucked his thumb, eyes fluttering shut, stroking and running his tongue over it, as if reminding John of how he used to suck John's cock. And John remembered. All those times, how it thrilled him, after a case, after Sherlock had been showered with praise and accolades, to put the great detective submissively on his knees and slide his cock into the eager, waiting mouth. Burying his hands in Sherlock's wild curls and watching his mouth work over him. Or sometimes fucking his mouth just to watch his dick sliding between those perfect pink lips. Sherlock never refused him. Always took every inch of him and swallowed his come gladly, licking his lips in satisfaction afterwards.

"I remember, love," he purred to Sherlock. "Later you can put on a show for Mary and I." He pulled his thumb out and then he lifted Mary's blouse.

"Mmm, no bra, I see," he murmured into her ear, but loud enough so Sherlock could hear. He stroked a nipple with his wet slick thumb until she whimpered. "That's what you do when you're looking to get some. Did you do that for him as well?"

"Yes," Mary moaned.

"She loves having her nibbles licked and sucked and played with," John said to Sherlock. "Go, on, have a go. I want to see. And hear."

Sherlock paused, considering the logistics, then, deciding that Mary's short stature warranted it, went down to his knees. He nuzzled the underside of one breast with his lips, then drew the hard nipple into his mouth and suckled at it, teasing it with his tongue.

Mary cried out softly. Sherlock's hand reached up to cover the other breast, his elegant fingers stroking and teasing.

John kissed Mary's neck and unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans and slid a hand inside, into her knickers. She was already warm and wet and he began to stroke her, dipping a finger inside until she squirmed and then finding her clit and commencing to stroke it just the way she liked it. The way that brought her off the quickest.

Mary whimpered. "Oh, John … here?"

"Right here," John murmured, kissing her cheek. "Sherlock and I are going to make you come right here. He rolled his hips, grinding his erection up against her arse, while he stroke her clit, kissed her neck, and watched Sherlock's lips and tongue moving over her breasts and nipples and Mary's hands running through his glossy curls.

Mary's breath came faster and faster and her moans and cries grew more urgent and it didn't take long before she let out a strangled cry and came, shuddering against John's hand, her fingers tightening in Sherlock's hair until she went limp and sagged back against John.

John smiled and carefully pulled his hand out of her damp knickers. "Good girl. That was gorgeous." He easily swung her up into his arms and headed down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom. He looked back at Sherlock. "Come on, you. Now it's your turn … I hope you have some condoms and lube handy."

Sherlock nodded, speechless. And then followed. Like so many nights where he had followed John into that bedroom. Only it would be different this time. New. He had long decided that it was illogical to dwell on what used to be and instead to focus on what was to come with John and Mary … and him. He cringed inwardly at the unintended pun, but felt a thrill of excitement anyway.


End file.
